


Sink Into the Sea & Find Out That You Can Breathe

by APgeeksout



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Blindfolds, Community: wrestlingkink, Multi, Non-Penetrative Sex, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-09
Updated: 2015-05-09
Packaged: 2018-03-29 17:01:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,508
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3904021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/APgeeksout/pseuds/APgeeksout
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He'd spent half his life and his whole career making sure that everyone knew just what a sick, underhanded guy he was. So, naturally, when it was time to form a team, he would the one who couldn't bring himself to trust his partners (guys who were, if anything, too straight-laced and honorable for their own good). The irony wasn't lost on him, though it would've been easier to appreciate if it were happening to some other poor bastard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sink Into the Sea & Find Out That You Can Breathe

**Author's Note:**

> For the following prompt at the continuous source of glee that is [the wrestling kinkmeme: ](http://wrestlingkink.dreamwidth.org)
> 
>  
> 
> _Dean, Seth, and Roman know that if The Shield is going to be successful, they need to be able to trust and count on each other. Problem is that Dean trusts no one, including them. Roman and Seth's solution? Blindfold Dean and...teach him to trust them. Up to the poster how smutty it gets, but I would like for some smut._

“Nope. Not doing it.” He crossed his arms over his chest and propped a foot on the coffee table, nudging a stack of music magazines aside with his boot.

Seth sighed, clearly already regretting the idea of this team-up. “Well, we've got to do _something_ , Ambrose.”

“We come onto the scene like we're planning, and we won't find allies in that locker room,” Roman agreed from the armchair. “If we're not on the same page every time we go out there, we're done before we ever get started.”

“Look,” Seth tried again, shifting on the couch next to him. “I know you think a lot of the stuff other people care about is bullshit.”

Dean nodded. Nothing to disagree with there.

“But I also know that you want this to work. You're a great wrestler, and it's important to you that people know that, even if you have some weird need to pretend that it's not.”

“Your face is weird.” Seth and Roman both just looked at him, expressions registering somewhere between unimpressed and disappointed. He sighed, uncrossed his arms, idly picked at the hem of his shirt. “It's nothing personal. Or, anyway, it's not you guys. I guess it's personal to me, 'cause it's all baggage I'm haulin' around like a fucking bellboy or whatever, but, like, I know you're solid guys.”

“But there's knowing, and then there's _knowing_ ,” Roman said. “I get it. That's what this is all about. Moving that up to the front of the line, so you're not wasting time in the ring reminding yourself to count on your partners.”

“Gonna have to cut a lot of places in line to get out in front of all my shit,” he said ruefully.

“All the more reason to get started sooner rather than later,” Seth said, sounding entirely too reasonable for a guy who'd used the words “trust exercise” with a straight fucking face to open this whole conversation. “C'mon, you're already halfway there, since you clearly trust that I'm not going to kick your ass for putting your feet on my furniture.”

He snorted, and dropped his boot to the floor, bobbed his knee in a rapid little jig. “Fine. Fuck it. Let's do this thing.”

“Good man,” Roman said.

“Yeah?” Seth smiled and reached for the puddle of black silk on the table in front of him.

“Yeah. Try not to look so excited about it. I'm already kind of wigged out that you apparently keep a blindfold just sitting around your house.”

“It's a scarf,” Seth said, neatly re-folding the fabric into a wide band. “Did you want to put it on, or...”

“Nah, you do the honors.” He shifted on the cushions, turning his back to Seth.

Roman gave him a placid smile and a thumbs-up. Dean rolled his eyes, even as Seth slid the blindfold into place before them.

The fabric was smooth and cool across the bridge of his nose and against his temples, and he could feel his eyelashes catch against it as he blinked reflexively against the sudden darkness. He felt Seth's hands at the back of his head, sure and efficient, tying the loose ends securely, pushing wayward pieces of his hair aside so that it didn't get tangled in the knot. He pulled the scarf taut with one last tug.

"How's that?" he asked, hands still hovering behind Dean's head.

"Good, I guess."

One of Seth's hands dropped onto his shoulder, giving him an awkward, _there, there_ kind of pat. He figured it was meant to be reassuring, and he bit down hard on the urge to laugh, mostly because he didn't know when he'd be able to quit if he let himself get started.

He'd spent half his life and his whole career making sure that everyone knew just what a sick, underhanded guy he was. So, naturally, when it was time to form a team, he would the one who couldn't bring himself to trust his partners (guys who were, if anything, too straight-laced and honorable for their own good). The irony wasn't lost on him, though it would've been easier to appreciate if it were happening to some other poor bastard.

"So, what now?" Roman asked, deep voice pitched low, like Dean was a skittery creature he didn't want to startle.

And, hell, maybe he was, Dean thought, registering the way his pulse had picked up time, juddering under the skin of his throat, even as he knew there was nothing to worry about here. He dropped his hands into his lap and worried at the rough fabric of his jeans.

“A bunch of the ideas in the book are to build something or play a game where the person in the blindfold is the only one who can touch the pieces,” Seth said, “and they take instructions from the rest of the team. I don't have any blocks or puzzles or anything around here, though. Didn't invest in any accessories, 'cause I kind of didn't expect you to go through with it.” He nudged Dean lightly in the ribs.

He jumped at the contact, and tried to disguise it with a chuckle. “Yeah, I'm just full of surprises.”

“Full of something.”

“Got a deck of cards?” Roman spoke up. “We could walk through a couple hands of solitaire?”

“Good call. Give me a minute to find them. You guys go on in to the kitchen, spread out at the table.”

The cushions shifted as Seth rose from the couch, and Dean followed suit, then froze as he realized how adrift he was, in the dark, in a house he'd visited not more than a handful of times.

“Hey.” Roman's voice came from nearer than he'd been before, the big man's deceptive grace – or maybe the dull thrum of Dean's own heart in his ears – having let him close the space between them without Dean hearing his footsteps. Fingers curled slowly around his bicep. “I know you're not much of a follower,” Roman continued, “but if you come with me, I won't steer you wrong.”

Dean gave a jerky nod. This was so stupid; the greatest threat he was going to encounter in Seth's living room was probably barking his shin on an end-table or tripping over a throw rug. There was absolutely no reason he shouldn't have been able to trust his own voice.

“Okay,” Roman said, steady and soft, his tone pulling something loose in Dean's chest. “Couple steps to your right.”

They made it to the kitchen without incident, Roman directing him with short instructions and quick pressure on his arm. When they reached the table, he dropped into a chair, and Roman clapped him on the shoulder before moving away. He drummed his fingertips against the bare tabletop to burn off some of the wary tension winding up between his shoulder blades, his own fidgety white noise not so loud that he didn't hear the scrape of a chair over tile somewhere to his left, quick steps approaching from the right: Roman claiming a chair of his own, Seth emerging from some other part of the house to catch up to them.

Seth's hand brushed his shoulder - a silent _here I am; please don't jump out of your skin_ that dragged a jagged little laugh into Dean's throat – as he stopped next to him and pressed the deck of cards into his hands.

He was grateful for the little warning touch and the task to occupy his hands and the way Roman and Seth fell into easy bullshitting about poker while he shuffled the deck, like none of this was any big thing. Like Dean wasn't a warped tool they were all trying to reforge into usefulness.

Like they didn't know he was counting down the hours until they realized he was broken past fixing and dropped him like so much hot garbage.

And maybe they didn't, he reflected, riffling through the deck while they chuckled on either side of him. It was written all over him, if the uncharacteristic caution in the way they were touching and talking to him was anything to go by, but Roman came from good people who treasured him, and anyone who looked at Seth knew he belonged wherever he wanted to be. Maybe it had never occurred to them that the world worked that way, disposing of people who stopped being useful.

He cut the deck, dragging himself out of his own head and back into the moment. “Okay, what am I doing here? Better not be blackjack, because I absolutely do not trust you enough to play that blind.”

“Like I would need to cheat to beat you,” Roman scoffed.

“Okay, children,” Seth broke in, “play nice.”

“Picked the wrong guy if 'nice' is what you're going for,” Dean groused, mostly because it was expected of him. In truth, he'd heard the easy smile in Seth's voice, and it helped settle something under his ribs.

He laid out the deck in a rough horseshoe, uncovering and grouping cards at their directions: _to your left; one more stack; that's a four_. It was low-stakes and not too hard, even though playing blind made him clumsy, and after a few games he felt them all falling into rhythm together, the way they would need to in the ring.

He turned the next card face-up and Roman and Seth let out simultaneous noises of frustration. He knew without further discussion that it was the last king, ending the game just a few cards short of winning the hand.

He scraped the deck back in to reshuffle, let Roman's light touch still his hand and guide his fingers to the cards that needed turned to face the same direction as their peers.

“You guys want something to drink?” Seth asked.

“Maybe. What'cha got?”

“Actually, you know what?” Seth said, his chair scraping back from the table quietly. “I think you're gonna have to trust me on this one.”

“You can't see it,” he said, “but I'm rolling my eyes at you. Like, hard enough they're going to get stuck.”

“Probably ought to have booze in it, if we're going to keep this up,” Roman said dryly, giving his wrist a squeeze before withdrawing.

“One step ahead of you,” Seth said. Dean heard the clink of glassware and ice, the little domestic soundtrack of Seth taking things out of his fridge and cabinets and drawers.

“You saying I drive you to drink?”

“'Cause I know you've never heard that one before,” Roman chuckled. “Seriously, though,” he said, sobering, “you're doing good. I think this is gonna work out. How you feeling?”

He didn't need to see them to know they were watching him carefully; he could feel their eyes on him, hear that Seth had stilled in his bartending chores to study him. He shrugged broadly, turned it into something like a dance step, uncoordinated maybe, but pulling loose the tension that crawled up his spine under their scrutiny.

“Weird,” he finally offered, “but okay, I guess.” He realized as he said it that it was true; he was a little jittery (still, always), and he'd never really quit being aware of the fabric against skin, warm now with the heat of his body, but this was doable. He was okay, or at least he could be. Would be.

“Kinda figured 'weird' was just your resting state,” Seth said lightly, and Dean heard him go back to opening bottles and pouring measures.

“Well, we can't all be golden boys,” he returned mildly.

“Where would the fun in that be, anyway?” Roman clapped him on the shoulder again, but this time he didn't take his hand away, just let it rest on Dean steady and warm through the material of his shirt.

Was that just something Roman did when he was comfortable? Some kind of test? And if it was, how creatively was Dean about to fail it? Before he had decided if or how he was supposed to react, Seth was back at his side, pressing a cool glass into his hands before turning back to the counter. He raised it to sniff, picking up only a note of citrus and the tickle of carbonation for his trouble.

“C'mon, Ambrose,” Seth said, returning to stand at his side, not touching, but in his space all the same. “If I were going to poison you, don't you think I'd have done it before now? And without witnesses?”

“After a guy does that to his hair, who can say what he'll do?”

Roman laughed. “Is it my turn to play peacemaker? I want a toast.”

“To partnership?” Seth suggested.

“Brothers-in-arms,” Roman offered softly.

Dean held his glass out. “To staying a little bit weird.”

“I'll drink to that,” Seth said, and poked him lightly in the ribs, even as Roman was squeezing his shoulder. He forced himself not to shrink away from their touches, to stay still and soak up whatever they wanted to give him. It wasn't like they were opening up the dull ache in his gut on purpose.

Two other glasses clinked lightly with his own, and he took a sip. Sweet and smooth.

“Rum and coke? S'good.”

“Thanks. The lime juice actually makes it a _cuba libre_.”

Seth settled back in his own chair and they were quiet for a while, nursing their drinks. Dean idly tapped at the deck with his free hand but didn't move to deal another losing hand just yet.

“So, what next?” he asked.

“Well, there's a bunch of stuff in the book about setting up an obstacle course and, kind of, leading you through it. I didn't set anything up, though.”

“Thought you were running this show, Seth? What kind of half-ass master plan is this?”

“Oh, eat me.” There was another silent pause, and then, somehow, they were all laughing.

Giving Seth shit was fun, had been from day one, but it loosened a knot in his chest to realize that he wasn't the only one feeling his way through this thing in the dark.

“I've never seen the rest of your place,” Roman offered. “You, Dean?”

“Nope. Give us the nickel tour?”

 

 

“And through here – watch your step – is my bedroom.”

He took a couple of small steps over the threshold, following Seth's voice and the guidance of Roman's hand against his side.

“Just so you know,” he said “I'm imagining a blacklight. Lots of band posters. Tie-dyed curtains. The whole nine.”

Seth chuckled, “I won't crush your illusion, then.”

“Seventeen year-old you totally had that room, right?” Roman asked.

“I plead the Fifth.”

Dean smirked, and took another couple of steps into the room. The movement took him out of contact with either of his partners, but he believed – trusted – that they'd stop him before he ran into anything in his path.

“Really, Seth, it's a great place,” Roman said.

“Thanks. First one that's ever been all mine.” Dean heard him moving across the thick carpet, the rustle of fabric – sheets? - being rearranged. “I kind of love it,” he said, sounding almost sheepish.

The unexpectedly bashful note in his voice pulled Dean up short. He couldn't remember the last time he'd heard Seth sound less than completely cocksure, but just now he sounded the way Dean felt.

"Thanks for letting us take over your space," Roman said, and his tone was steady and warm, the same way it had been when he'd coaxed Dean into the kitchen, praised him for getting with the program.

Seth answered, and Roman said something back to that, and Dean let their chatter wash over him while he rode out a little wave of vertigo that he knew was only partly down to lacking a sight-line or an anchor. He stifled another urge to laugh. For a guy who'd always prided himself on being able to read the guys he got in the ring with, it had taken him a long damn time to realize that this - building a faction, becoming something together that they hadn't been before - might be hard for them, too.

Seth was saying something about his backyard when he checked back into the conversation, and he heard the snick of a lock, and a sliding door moving in its track. Roman stepped up next to him, a guiding hand settling against his back, and Dean moved with him toward Seth's last position.

“Little ledge here,” Seth warned.

He stepped through the doorway and into the sunshine, soft and warm on the exposed parts of his face and arms, bright light sneaking in around the edges of the scarf, dazzling after the cooler, darker space of Seth's house. A light wind riffled through his hair and carried the smell of woodsmoke and charred meat from someone's barbecue. He felt weirdly exposed, aware of the open sky surrounding his sightless bubble.

“A couple of steps down.” Seth's hand closed around his own, drawing him forward. “Careful. They're uneven.”

He cleared the stairs, Roman following close behind him, and stopped at the bottom. Dean hadn't pulled his hand free from Seth's grasp, and Seth didn't make any move to turn him loose. Roman's arm curved around his back, one hand settling against his ribs, warm through his shirt, and he made himself be still again for a moment with both of their hands on him, the middle link in their chain.

“Garden's over here,” Seth said after another beat of quiet, steering him to the left with an easy tug of their joined hands.

They stopped after a few steps, and Dean almost laughed again, at the ridiculousness of being “shown around” from behind the blindfold. But, he guessed that was kind of the point: doing little, dumb things with each other now, to build up to taking big risks together later on.

He took a deep breath, the air tasting sharp and green and alive. “Tell me what it's like?”

“You can tell somebody put a lot of planning, lot of work into it,” Roman said, and Dean thought he was probably talking for Seth's benefit as much as his. “Right in front of us are the tomatoes. Some of 'em look ripe, and they all look fucking delicious.”

“Oh, they are,” Seth said, sounding proud of his work, pleased with the acknowledgment. He released Dean's hand and Dean felt him shift beside him, reaching down into the space in front of them, the plants adding a delicate rustle of leaves to the air.

“Can I?” Seth asked, one of his hands landing on Dean's shoulder.

It was on his tongue to ask “'Can you' what?”, or the more smart-ass “I don't know; can you?”, but instead, he focused on their hands - easy against him, like they'd always belonged there - and the closed circuit they formed together, stable and electric. He nodded; he could be strong enough to give Seth whatever he was asking for. And if it turned out he was wrong about that, he could let them break his fall.

Seth squeezed his shoulder tight for an instant, and then the flesh of a tomato, smooth and full and warm from the sun, grazed over his lips, and he understood that “Can I?” was _Can I feed you? Can I give you a taste of something that's only here because I cared enough to make it grow?_.

He opened his mouth and bit into it like an apple, taking the biggest piece he could manage. Soft and sweet and sharp with just the right sting of acid on his tongue. He heard himself actually moan while juice dripped down his chin. Whatever. If he was going to worry about his dignity, the time to start would've been sometime before he found himself blindfolded, being stroked and fed by hands that had been intent on pinning him not all that long ago.

They pressed closer against him, Seth in front and Roman from behind, and he realized from their motions and sounds, that they were repeating the process with each other: Seth offering Roman a bite, Roman taking the remains of the tomato and returning the favor, both of them holding him steady between them the whole while.

The raw-edged ache was expanding in his belly again, sharper this time, but sweeter, too. He was almost sure now that it wouldn't swallow him whole, that, together, they'd find a way to ease it before it could. So, when Seth's fingers brushed across his chin, wiping the juice from his skin, it was maybe the easiest thing he'd done all afternoon to tilt his head and catch those fingertips in his mouth.

Seth tasted like tomato and the lime he'd sliced for their drinks and the salt of his skin. He swirled his tongue over the calloused pads of his fingers, and Seth drew in a shallow breath while Roman hummed out a quiet note of approval. Dean wondered if he would have picked up either one without the blindfold to sharpen his focus.

He felt Seth's hand drift up from his shoulder to curve against the side of his neck, thumb digging gently into the soft spot beneath the hinge of his jaw, even as Roman's hands settled against his waist, fingers edging beneath the hem of his shirt.

He relinquished the fingers of Seth's other hand and found them replaced by his lips, barely more than a peck at first, soft and sure on his own. He leaned into the kiss and pressed fingers into the solid muscle of Seth's back, pulling him in closer.

Seth broke the kiss, and as Dean ground out a little noise of protest, his forehead came to rest against Dean's own, contact broken by the edge of the blindfold. Roman was still a steady presence at his back, warm fingers moving across his stomach slowly cataloging the old marks of broken glass and sharp wire scattered over his skin. He felt Seth's hands move again to the back of his head, toward the knotted ends of the scarf, and shook his head.

“Leave it,” he said, the words and the roughness of his own voice surprising him.

“Yeah?” Seth asked, fingers shifting to card through his hair instead.

“Yup.”

“Good,” Roman said softly, and pressed a kiss against the back of his neck.

He shivered, once, and couldn't have said whether it was at the prickle of Roman's beard against his skin or the way that word settled heavy in the center of his chest. Either way, Roman's hand moved in a soothing stroke down his side, while Seth tilted his head to swallow his sigh in another kiss.

He didn't have to fight himself so hard this time to stay still, to be there and just feel: the sun beating down onto him and soaking into the black fabric of the blindfold; his heart pounding under his skin; Roman's lips thoroughly mapping all the tender places beneath one side of his jaw; Seth teasing his teeth along the jut of his opposite collarbone.

They didn't talk about going back into the house, and Dean wasn't sure who made the first move in that direction. Maybe no one; maybe they'd all synced up somehow. They were all less cautious than they'd been on the way out, and he stumbled on the stairs up to the stoop, but they were there to catch him, steady hands bracing his body before he went down to the concrete.

Back inside, they twined around him again, breaking apart now and then to shed layers. When he pulled the t-shirt over his head, the scarf tried to come with it, and Roman was there with gentle fingers smoothing it back into place, dropping a light kiss on the crown of his head.

They pressed close around him again, hot skin over hard muscle, and he realized they were kissing each other over his shoulder. That, he supposed, would have been something to see. He contented himself with listening to their breathing and sharp noises of want, leaning into their touches, and reaching out for the both of them with greedy fingers.

“Hey,” Seth murmured, lips close to his ear, breath soft on his skin, “you're shaking.”

He was: tremors that started in that hollow ache at his core and radiated out through the fingers that were tangled in Seth's hair, and the legs that were doing about as much to hold him up as Roman's hands on his hips. He couldn't stop it, but he could ignore it, push through until he'd left it behind or crumpled underneath it.

“M'okay.” He felt the heat rise in his cheeks, and was grateful for the scarf, glad not to have to see the pity he was sure would be in their faces.

“Sure,” Roman said, and one of his hands drifted to spread across Dean's stomach, fingers moving in an easy stroke over his skin. “You know you don't have to be, though. Right?”

“We can stop any time you're not feeling it,” Seth added. “Just say the word.”

“Oh, god.” He rolled his eyes beneath the blindfold. Even though the gesture was lost on them, it helped him sell his annoyance, let him pretend that their gentleness wasn't most of what had him so shook to begin with. “Here's the word: shut up and kiss me some more.”

“What if I don't want to kiss somebody so bossy?” Seth said, making the answer irrelevant by settling his lips back over Dean's before he could reply.

Roman huffed out a laugh and pressed his own kiss against the side of his neck. The light graze of teeth over his skin sent a different kind of shiver down his spine.

“Come here,” Roman said, nudging him into position with the hand curled against his hip.

“Now who's bein' bossy?” he grumbled. Still, he let them guide him again, and they eased him further into the room and down onto Seth's bed, the sheets soft and cool under his bare back. He felt Roman stretch out alongside him and lean over to drop kisses on his hair, his face, the hollow of his throat. Seth kept a light hand on him, skimming from his chest over the waist of his jeans and down the length of his leg, until he settled at the foot of the bed, deft fingers tugging at the laces of Dean's boots.

This time, he didn't stifle the laugh that bubbled up in his chest. Roman pulled back just a little, one hand spreading warm and easy against Dean's ribs, while Seth stilled at their feet. He didn't need to lose the blindfold to know they were both watching him cautiously, sharp gazes heavier on him than their hands.

“You still good?” Roman ventured.

“Yup, I'm golden,” he said, smirk firmly in place as he tipped his head in Seth's direction and tapped a boot lightly against his knee. “Just, you bein' so practical; it's real sexy.”

Seth chuckled and went back to work on the boots. “Proper preparation prevents poor performance, Ambrose. In about five minutes, you're gonna be really glad I got this out of the way already.”

Roman leaned over him for another kiss, and Dean reached up and tugged at the neat bun gathered at the back of his neck. It was Roman's turn to laugh, quiet and soft against Dean's cheek. His weight shifted, settling heavy over Dean for a moment as he reached up to make quick work of the elastic holding his hair back. Freed, Roman's hair fell in soft waves, rustling against Seth's sheets and tickling at Dean's shoulders and forming a sweet, clean-smelling curtain around them.

“Better?” he asked.

In answer, Dean twisted his fingers into the loose locks at the back of Roman's head and pulled him down into another kiss.

It was easier than he'd expected – almost as easy as he'd pretended it could be any of the times he'd let himself imagine something like this – to get out of his own head and ground himself in them: the little groan that Roman gave when Dean nipped at his bottom lip; the faint traces of lime and sweetness on his tongue. The beads of sweat that collected and rolled down his skin as they added their body heat to the heat of the afternoon; Seth's detergent and Roman's shampoo and a hundred other notes mixing heady in the air around them; the light scrape of blunt fingernails over denim as Seth's hands traveled back up his thighs and slowly, slowly to the fly of his jeans. Roman's mouth hot and wet, sucking what he could already tell would be a lingering bruise on his neck; the way the blindfold pulled tight against his face, the material of the scarf catching against the fabric of Seth's sheets when he tilted his head to give Roman better access to the markable skin of his throat. The sound that punched out of his chest, more breath than substance, when Seth finished relieving him of jeans and underwear and stretched out alongside him, a press of bare skin from shoulder to knee.

Seth laughed, soft and low, and trailed a series of light kisses from his cheekbone just below the edge of the blindfold down to the corner of his mouth.

“Didn't I tell you you'd be glad not to have to think about your shoelaces right now?” he asked, stroking warm fingers against the lowest plane of Dean's belly, teasingly close to his stiff cock, and shifted, so that his own hardness pressed against Dean's hip.

“Now _that_ is a sight,” Roman rumbled, and Dean found himself pressed into the mattress for a long moment as his partners leaned in to get hands and mouths on each other as well.

Roman drew away for a beat, and, distantly – the slide of Seth's skin against his own and the way Seth's breath stuttered and sped against his jaw when Dean dropped a hand between them to start a steady stroke along his length were drawing the better part of his attention – Dean registered from the rustle of fabric and the way the springs moved with the shift of his weight that he was casting off his own last layers.

Roman's hand skimmed along Dean's side, settled briefly over Seth's where it was inching closer to his aching cock, and finally curled over his hip, nudging Dean to turn more fully onto his side. He let the light touch steer him once again, until he was face-to-face with Seth, Roman settling solid and warm against his back.

Seth tipped his head and caught his lips in another kiss, swallowing up the low moan that escaped him when Seth finally quit teasing and wrapped a hand around his cock. Meanwhile, Roman's hand traveled down his thigh, fingers digging into taut muscle, parting his legs just enough to slot his own erection into the space between them. When Dean rocked his hips into Seth's grasp, close but not quite in sync with his own hand on Seth, Roman tried to match his rhythm. It was imperfect, a little sloppy, and completely fucking amazing.

“That's good,” Roman murmured, lips soft against the back of Dean's neck, renewing the sweet ache in his chest. “So good.”

Wrapped up between them, their heat and and their hands on every part of him, it didn't take him long to unravel completely, coming with a sharp noise he tried to stifle against the crook of Seth's neck. He opened his mouth to bite a kiss into the soft skin beneath his lips and felt Seth's slickened hand settle over his own, guiding Seth to his release just a few moments later.

“Beautiful,” Roman said, voice ragged, fingertips pressing that much tighter into his skin, hips rocking that much more urgently against Dean, until he followed them over the edge.

Gradually, they spread out over the mattress, catching their breath, letting the faint breeze begin to dry the mess they'd made of each other. Dean fell onto his back, still wedged between them, and Seth and Roman each settled a hand on his stomach, fingers tangling together against his skin.

He reached up, finally, and pushed the scarf out of his eyes and into his sweaty hair, blinking against the light. He tilted his head one way, then the other, taking in the flush in Seth's cheeks, Roman's heavy-lidded eyes, and the disarray both of his partners' hair had fallen into against the pillows, before his gaze settled on their joined hands, gold and bronze against his own skin.

“We got - what? - two weeks to Survivor Series?”

Seth hummed in the affirmative.

“So, plenty of time to try this again?”

They both laughed, warmly – with, not _at_ , him – and he tried to imagine how it'd feel, to be part of something real with them, further into the future than he usually had the luxury of planning. Maybe pretty good, he thought. Maybe worth buying into.


End file.
